


here in your arms (goodbye is never forever)

by we_the_hollow



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_the_hollow/pseuds/we_the_hollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horny Harry + Concerned Zayn + Sunset Sex = Perfection (hopefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here in your arms (goodbye is never forever)

It’s like this sometimes. And Harry reasons that sometimes is better than no times at all because when it’s like this its bliss and for a few moments it’s endless. Zayn’s strong arms are wrapped securely round Harry and they’re homely and they’re absolute and they’re armour that glints and sparkles in the vermillion that peeks in through worn creamy linen curtains in the living room. 

 

They’re swaying in the breeze but the dance stopped a while ago.

 

Harry’s house is empty, silent, save for the _thrumthrumthrum_ of two boys beating hearts and fingernails scraping, digging into skin and screaming purple bruises that resemble smudged lavender ink. His teeshirt is hanging from his wrist where there is an abandoned attempt to remove it. Zayn’s mouth is scalding and fierce and Harry doesn’t have much willpower to do anything, let alone stand or release his body of its garments. And so somewhere inbetween wanting and needing Zayn closer at precisely the same time and removing clothes that get in the way of that, Harry is clinging to Zayn like a lifeline and mid fall, his teeshirt has become trapped.

 

Zayn’s however, is slung strategically on the armchair though Harry can’t imagine how; Zayn’s hands haven’t left Harry’s body and the armchair is at least four long strides away. Dark denim and light cotton pools at both their ankles and the boys, (stomach to stomach, chest to chest and palms flat against spines) stumble towards the couch, still latched absolutely to each other. Both bodies are _slickslickslick_ with sweat, and the heat is painful and too intense and radiating from their groins, so Zayn has no qualms about falling into Harry the minute his knees hit the back of the couch cushion. He picks up something like a rhythm and gets to work making sure Harry knows who he belongs to.

 

Zayn’s face is flushed in shades of coral and pillarbox red and its stealing the bronze to replace it with a shade of blush entirely of its own and creeping down his neck and over his collarbones, his usually high and structured quiff now damp with sweat is falling, matting, onto his forehead. The two arched lines where hair meets scalp hold the only bronze Harry can see. The rest of his torso is stained a deep burnt sienna.

 

There’s something like diamonds embedded in Zayn’s sienna skin and it’s sparkling and shining in the dimmed light that envelopes the room. Harry realises somewhat despondently that it’s a _thinthinthin_ sheen of perspiration and he pouts because he would love to believe that Zayn is comprised of burnt sienna blush and real diamonds. Zayn notices the pout and stops thrusting abruptly. Harry makes nothing short of a whine, _a fucking whine for Christ’s sake_ , at the very rude and unexpected loss of sensation. “Haz?” Zayn’s voice is absolutely ruined and wrecked beyond belief but it’s brimming with distress too, and to top it all off his brow furrows.

 

“Mm?” Harry replies, because nothing else is safe just yet. He bucks his hips in the air shamelessly and raises an eyebrow. Zayn backs up, his hands remaining on Harry’s jutting hips.  

 

“S’matter?” The concern spills over like a furious wave that drowns. Zayn doesn’t do concern half-heartedly and never will.

 

“Nothing love, m’fine.” Harry manages a smile although it almost kills him.

 

“What’re you thinking?” and Zayn lets himself flop onto Harry’s chest, resting his chin on something that feels like it might be Harry’s sternum. His hands, he notices, stay where they are on Harry’s hips, like maybe Zayn’s fingertips have anchored roots there; Harry imagines asphodel and apple blossom sprouting from the bone.

 

“Nothing. Come on, Mum’ll be back soon.” It only matters because Harry isn’t sure his darling mother would approve of the view of her son with his legs spread wide on her lovely floral patterned couch. So maybe Harry keens up against Zayn, and watches as the younger boy drags his teeth across his own bottom lip. Maybe he skims his fingers _downdowndown_ the length of Zayn’s spine and makes sure to pay extra attention to the small of Zayn’s back, circling and grinning when he feels him shiver. And maybe, quite guiltily, he lunges his hips into Zayn’s because he can’t or won’t take the hint and Harry wants to get this over with so he doesn’t have to try and explain the drying, cracked white patch on his stomach from earlier because honestly, Harry inherited his naivety and innocence from his mother.

 

“Alright then, but tell me later, yeah?” Zayn does his best impression of stern, and an image of a boy with cropped brown hair and chocolate eyes flashes into Harry’s head.

 

So he replies like he would to Liam, “Yup.”

 

Liam’s image is lost when Zayn’s eyes gloss over again somewhere between the ‘y’ and the ‘u’ and they’re darker than dark; the darkest Harry has ever seen them. They’re onyx in the low light and Harry smiles again. Maybe Zayn isn’t made of diamonds but his eyes are precious gems and that’s enough. There’s something spilling clumsily from his lips and mingling with his hot breath and its flowing over Harry’s marked hipbones and bruised collarbones and the dark hollow of his neck. It’s a word; just one, and it sounds awfully familiar when Zayn’s lips graze the shell of his ear. Harry gasps loudly when he realises what Zayn is saying.

 

It’s his name; _HarryHarryHarryHarryHarry_ over and over and over like a chant.

 

Harry wants Zayn to wait for him, like he did for Zayn, look at him with that same look of _goodbye_ and _I’ll miss you_ and _it’s not forever_ and _please stay_ and _I’ll always stay._ He feels mortified that he would want anyone to look at him like that because how could they? He was nothing special. But _ZaynZaynZayn_. Zayn hung the stars Harry thinks, and he wears them in his dark irises with onyx and the part of Harry’s soul that belongs to him. He feels mortified. But Harry’s curious by nature. Slinky and feline and too curious for his own wellbeing. He likes the word inquisitive better though and if curiosity killed the cat then inquisitivity slaughtered it. Harry’s always had an unspoken penchant for danger. He wonders and without realising, two small words leave his lips, “I’m here.” He startles at hot breath on his neck.

 

“So am I.”

 

And that’s all the validation Harry needs to realize the truth; Zayn was always waiting for him. Harry feels the oxygen leave his lungs but he doesn’t mind.

 


End file.
